Of Witches and Fakery
by RH Chello
Summary: Not all hunts are as simple as an easy salt-and-burn. And witches really are the worst.


_Story time..._

* * *

The room is quiet and still.

The witch is not.

She stands, weaving in the center, bathed in an eerie light of her own making. Her smile is feral as she stalks toward them, a predator in every step, her bare feet barely make a sound against the cold floor. Her hands extend in front of her and her lips whisper hissing secrets into the stale air – of murder and mindless, remorseless killing all for the sake of power. She jeers loudly at them, sounding for all the world like an enraged cat. For a moment, the air between them seems to wobble, and Dean feels light-headed for just a second. He quickly brushes it off. Sam notices nothing.

They both stop and share an arched look as the witch growls viciously, spitting. Dean raises his eyebrow. He raises the gun casually and fires three rounds without a thought. They clatter to the ground with a sneer and a knowing cackle. Sam swats him for wasting the ammo. Dean shrugs back an _Oops._

They split apart, each tracing the opposite wall, circling the witch. Her eyes track one of them, head lolling lazily to follow. She looks bored. She rises from the crouch to stand with one bony hip jutting out. A finger coils itself around a ratty strand of hair. She watches with hooded, dead eyes in an bizarre imitation of flirtatious.

Dean stares back warily, nervously noticing the unnatural curl of her lip as she smiles winningly at him. He keeps the gun steadily raised. Behind her, Sam fishes quietly through the duffel for the book. His fingers just close around the worn spine when she moves.

"Dean!" the name is thrown from him like a punch.

Dean's eyes flick back to the witch at the warning cry, only to find her ten feet closer and even uglier. Her surprisingly strong backhand propels him several feet into the air. The ground rushes up, looming dark and painfully solid. His eyes squeeze tightly shut. There is a strange lurch in his stomach that jerks his eyes open.

They widen.

He sees gold. He swears it – soft gold. A shade of color he hasn't seen in years.

"You okay?" Mary Winchester coos. "Aww. Come here, baby,"

His legs totter eagerly in her direction of their own accord as her arms come up around him. He leans into the embrace sniffling, scrubbing small fists against the tears he suddenly realizes are tracing the roundness of his cheeks. His mother's long fingers cup his scraped knee gently and she clucks her tongue. Her eyes twinkle kindly at him.

"Let's go clean up, yeah? Then you can help me bake cookies for daddy. Want to do that?"

He nods to her shoulder. Mary's cool arms shift to lift him up, and he scrambles to get comfortable. His forehead settles in the warm hollow of her neck. "Um hmm," He can feel the vibration of her soft hum as they make their way inside. His arms tighten around her neck, but her solid warmth shivers, then, all at once, it vanishes completely.

His head comes down hard on the concrete. He can only lie there, nearly insensate and aching with a sense of loss, while the witch creeps ever closer, indifferent to his weakness. Sam is on the floor now, too, the book scattered in the other corner. His vision wavers slightly, but Dean lurches to his feet, barely keeping himself upright. The witch suddenly appears at his side, ever-present grin lighting up her grimy face. She laughs openly at him, high-pitched – nearly a screech – and flashes her discolored, stained teeth when he grabs the gun from beside his feet and aims at her head.

She waggles her fingers playfully. Dean flies through the musty air and lands heavily on the cold concrete, skidding some. The witch skips happily toward him like a little girl on a playground. The chirp of her voice scrapes out a ruckus of foreign words, easily recognizable as a spell. He waits for her to wander closer then pulls his legs to him, preparing to kick out at her, but the air shudders again and his legs lose the strength to stay up.

He's coaxing the tiny car along the edge of the wooden floor highway. It narrowly skims the heavy forestation of the thick carpet before squealing around in a sharp turn. He rumbles under his breath as the pea-sized wheels clatter to a stop. He glances up from the corner of his eye at his captive audience currently seated in the high chair above him.

Cool blue regards him curiously. Dean remembers Mom telling him once that _his _eyes used to be baby-blue too, to which Dean had protested loudly and declared they were green and baby-blue was way too girly. He supposes, in hindsight, maybe she might have been telling a teensy-weensy-little bit of the truth. Or maybe Sammy really is some sort of freak from outer space. He certainly acts like one. All Sammy does all day is stare at you like he can see that cookie you'd stolen before dinner. It disconcerts Dean sometimes, and he's always the one to break eye contact first.

Dean stares back at his little brother for a second before coming to a decision. He climbs to his feet, clutching the car to him. He walks slowly up to the high chair, Sammy watching his every move, and sets the car down on the platform. At first, Sam does nothing but stare unnervingly as usual. Then Dean reaches out to give the car a nice push, and he adds a few sound effects for good measure. Instantly Sam's face transforms happily. He squeals with delight and pounds his tiny fists against his chair, laughing.

Dean sends him an answering grin and drives another lap around the white table.

The images rumble around him and collapse in dizzy circles. When Dean lifts his heavy eyelids, the witch is across the room attacking Sam. Dean yells, trying to stand against the floor that, at that moment, morphs from firm concrete into a rolling ocean of gray. He makes it to his knees before everything seems to cave in. Barely recovered from the spell just seconds before, another scene takes him over.

He staggers beneath the heavy coat his father's slumped body, the low usually rich voice rolling sluggishly against his ear. He tastes the bitter taint of alcohol in the moist breath whispering anguish over his cheek. He does not move away, merely shouldering the lump more willingly as it inches deeper in a drunken slumber.

The empty bottle slips from numb and uncoordinated fingers to thump on the dusty carpet. It seesaws, tinkling, and settles gently against the stained lint, like a crystal trapped in a gutter.

He drags an inch further into the reeking room, and the world empties around him like a vacuum.

The hard concrete presses against his achy knees and the air is thick with magic. The looming figure of the witch towers above him with cataracts wild and flaky lips caressing the shape of a curse. Her scrawny arm rises like an ax, her face turns wild.

Thinking fast, which is to say, not so much thinking as reacting instinctively, Dean balances himself, and then he lunges. His shoulder connects with her skeletal midsection, and they crumble in a heap of tangled swearing and interrupted spells. The witch shrieks; she lashes out, shoving him off her and into a nearby wall.

He braces himself for the hard impact on sore bruises, but the world shifts again. This time he can feel it, he can almost see the waves of _not-real_ shoving down around him.

His cheeks are wet. Not in the crying-wet. In the wet that drips lazily in Rorschach patterns and blinds you with deep red, stinging hotly where it touches. The wetness streaks across his face as his breath drains from him in damp puffs and his legs push him farther into the foliage.

A branch snaps angrily at his face and he feels the burning stretch in a deep yawn along his cheek. His hand shakes it away distractedly, one word tearing free of his blistering throat.

"Dad!"

The shotgun clings to his fingers, heavy. His legs pump faster.

"_Dad!"_

His foot catches abruptly on air, dragging him down. His mouth is filled with moist dirt and rancid salt; it reminds him of the stench of terror. Metallic red paints a finger along his jaw. A booming roar lets loose behind him. Above him now. His heart screams, pounding at the cage of his ribs. The shadow blots out the meager moonlight. Another scream. Not enough air. Death reaches greedy fingers, grinning. He can smell it. It's close. And it smells like fire.

Dean gasps, snapping back to himself wedged between the stinging wall and irate witch. Her hard fingers clench at his hair and pull his lolling head up from the floor. He sees the slimy gleam of her wide smile against the angry plane of her face. It's not human. _She_ died nearly thirty years ago, stolen away by the very thing she'd pledged herself to. Now only the spell-crafting demon remains.

His desperate hand grabs at her wrist. Sharp knuckles dig painfully into his tender scalp. Her lips move in twitches, jerking words from the back of her burning breath, and spitting them out like blazing coals. The final sound escapes her in a shout; it sounds like triumph. Her smile cuts even deeper into her gaunt cheeks. The bruises of her eyes spark in dark delight. Dean's stomach clenches with dread and the lump of panic struggles against his throat. His ears still roar with the shadow in the forest. It was all from his black imagination, he understands now, but the horror had been oh so real.

The witch still smiles, waiting, anticipating.

But.

Nothing. Just - nothing. Dean feels absolutely _nothing_. He searches the witch's face in trepidation. Is this another trick?

But now he sees the witch's own face scramble in confusion, then disbelief, then thoughtful contemplation, and finally the expected rage. She screams a foul breath into his shocked face and gives his hanging head a rough shake. It bangs against the wall behind; the movement conjures stars across his vision.

The incantation batters his ears again, faster and with more heat. Her other hand flashes out from nowhere to slap his pale cheek. Another shake. Still nothing. _Slap._ As if he is somehow countering her evil magic.

The rough handling has a converse effect, clearing his murky thoughts. Now he can hear it – low rhythmic chanting, increasingly louder as fearful realization dawns harshly on the witch's angled face.

She snarls, face contorted, but Dean catches the glimpse of panic plain in her hollow eye before she whirls away from him. Sam's voice rings with an ancient power that sends the witch howling to her ragged knees before she can drag herself even a foot further. The walls bleed and the beams screech with her pain, but the voice rolls unflinchingly on. It dips, the finale pulsing out forcefully. She screams one last scattered cry. Then her abused body crumples to the floor and explodes into a flame of fireworks. The wooden crates near her catch fire an instant later. A whoosh of breeze, then a rustling calm.

The brothers wobble to their feet, breathing hard and staring dumbly at the quietly snapping flames that lick tentatively at the rotting beams.

The deed is done. The fight is over. Now all that leaves are the tired and shaken.

"Hey, man, ya'll right?"

A quick staccato beat, almost unnoticeable if you aren't searching for it. It is quickly masked by a weary sound to fill the silence, but it is there all the same.

"'Course I am. Completely fried my brain and all, but yeah, m'good."

"Uh huh," it sounds skeptical, but he doesn't push.

They lean together as the smoke reaches ashy fingers to the ceiling in prayer. The crackling shape smells of death and fire and numb, unsatisfying victory. Bittersweet.

"In fact, I'm _awesome_."

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it._


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